


Fateful Choices

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can John accept something he's denied to himself for so long?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fateful Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Set after they find out about Mary's past

John still wasn’t sure how things were going to work out with him and Mary. Ever since he had found out that she had lied to him, he’d found it hard to trust her or even look at her. He wasn’t sure that he’d go so far as to say that he didn’t still love her, but a change had occurred in their relationship and he wasn’t entirely sure if the marriage could survive it. He was not a man that took being lied to easily and she should have known that, considering how he reacted to Sherlock’s return.

She set a plate in front of him, idly touching her barely rounded stomach. Breakfast was a silent affair because he didn’t know what to say to her or if he wanted to talk to her. It had been a month since he’d found out she had deceived him…but worse still that she had shot Sherlock. He didn’t care that by calling the ambulance first, she had saved his life. She had _still_ shot him.

“You know…John…”

He looked up at her back, seeing her bracing herself at the sink and looking out the window at the street outside. “I’ve wanted to say this for awhile.” Mary looked at him. “It’s okay with me.”

John couldn’t help it. He was a tad lost. “What is?”

“That you love Sherlock.” He stiffened fiercely. Was she really going to go there? “You can deny it all you want, but it’s clear that you do. Maybe more than anyone else in the world, you do.” She slowly sat down on one of the chairs and her finger nudged at his suddenly clenched fist in the first touch they’d had for a month. “I just wanted to let you know that if anything _does_ happen between you two…it’s okay with me. I won’t ask you to stop.”

His eyes narrowed. “And if I found another woman? Would you be this accepting?”

“No! John, I’m not saying that I’d ever be all right with a random open relationship. I’m just saying that I know there are two people in the world that you love and he…well it’s pretty clear he loves you back, but he won’t…do anything. Not unless you take the first step.”

He shoved himself from the table and stood up. “I can’t talk about this right now, Mary.”

“We don’t have to talk about it, John. I’m not asking to. I’m just saying that if one day, down the road—”

“I am _not gay_! I’m not _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes!”

Mary sighed. “I’ve never met a man more in denial than you are.”

Angrier than he probably should be, John threw up his hands and stalked out of his apartment. He didn’t even have a destination in mind; it was a weekend so no work for him. He could go anywhere he wanted except he had left his keys to the car in the apartment and he wasn’t willing to turn back to get them. So he walked, and walked. Perhaps he should have been paying attention but by the time he realized it, he was already outside of 221B Baker’s Street.

This was the last place he wanted to be after their conversation, really, but he could hear the violin playing upstairs from the open window. What was Sherlock upset about now? John tried to tell himself that he didn’t really care, but he did and he had become unreasonably overprotective over his friend since he’d been shot. How had he recovered? Was he all right?

He was about to turn and leave when a very familiar voice caught his ear and he sighed. “Have you lost your key?” How could he say no to Mrs. Hudson?

“No, I’ve got them.” He politely took one of the shopping bags she carried and she opened the door. “Oh, I can handle them, dear, go on up and see Sherlock.”

Knowing she would henpeck him if he didn’t, he headed up. The door was already open and he peered in to see his best friend, replete with pajamas and bathrobe, playing his violin. The sound abruptly ceased and the man turned on his heel. “Trouble at home, John?”

John didn’t ask how he knew. He always knew. So instead he just dropped down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. The smell of this flat was so familiar and comforting. “You even need to ask that question?”

 “What happened?”

“She has a stupidly crazy notion that I’m somehow in love with you and it’d be okay with her if we had sex.” He hadn’t really meant to blurt it out, but he felt so stressed. He’d taken to sleeping on the sofa back at his flat with Mary. He missed her, yet he also resented her. How could all this happen? At the suspicious silence, he looked up through his hands to find Sherlock just watching him calmly. “What is it?”

“What?”

“You’re giving me that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says I’ve just said something incredibly obvious and am therefore stupid to not have figured it out before. So spit it out, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hesitated, looking surprisingly concerned. He had seen that look a fair amount, ever since the detective had come back and found him engaged to Mary. Sherlock… _Sherlock_ was trying to figure out what to say so that he didn’t upset him. He was caring if he upset John and that actually frightened him a bit because this was not the man he had known.

“Sherlock… _spit it out._ ”

Finally those blue gray eyes looked at him, uncertainty still at their edges as to whether or not he should say anything at all. “…She’s right, John.”

At the whispered words, he felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “What?”

“You think I didn’t see it?” Sherlock continued quietly. “You’ve never acknowledged it, but…your every behavior says you are. It’s because of you, how you react around me that causes people to question whether or not that we were a couple.”

“So somehow it’s my fault?!” he yelled.

Sherlock sighed heavily and stalked over to him, grabbing his wrists and pressing into them. “Your pulse is racing, John.”

“I’m _angry_!”

“Your pupils are dilated.”

“What about what I just said doesn’t—”

“John! Enough, John!” The hands left his wrists and gripped his face and neck tightly. The action startled him so much that he stopped talking entirely. The hard eyes softened in a way he had only ever noticed peripherally and had only ever been directed to certain people like Mrs. Hudson. It had never occurred to him that he’d be one of them. He hadn’t thought that Sherlock understood the gentler emotions or emotions in general. “It’s all right, John.”

“What’s all right?” he asked quietly.

“You don’t have to accept it now, or ever. It changes nothing.” One hand left his neck, but honestly, his eyes couldn’t leave Sherlock’s to see what it was he was reaching for. “Relax, John.” It was only when he felt a pinprick on his wrist did he hiss and pull back, looking down. A small needle was in Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock…what…” Everything after was blackness.

-0-

“—you sent him into a panic! I had to knock him out!”

They were the first words he heard as he found himself coming to. He was stretched out on the sofa with a blanket over him and his shoes tossed haphazardly on the floor nearby. Sherlock was pacing nearby, wearing a suit as he usually did if he was leaving the house or had just returned. Who was he arguing with?

“I realize that your intentions were noble, but I knew a long time ago and I knew what would happen if someone he cared about confronted him with it! He needed to realize it himself!” There was a pause and the pacing lessened at whatever someone said. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m fine. So long as he’s...yes, in my life I suppose is the best term, then I have no other requirements.” Sherlock listened further. “I’ll try. He looked like he hadn’t slept well for weeks.”

John groaned heavily, struggling to sit up in a drug-filled haze. When he fell back onto his back, those stunning blue gray eyes were on him. “He’s awake.” Within a moment, Sherlock had ended the call and came over to him, sitting on the coffee table.

“What…did you give me?” he demanded.

“Something to make you sleep, had some leftover from my stay in the hospital. You needed the rest.”

“Don’t…ever…drug me…again.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to ask him ‘what else would you have me do?’ “We have to talk about…earlier. I…was not…panicking.” He struggled to sit up again and this time had some success in getting on his elbow.

“You were awake earlier than I expected.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“…Mary. After I knocked you out, I had intended to go straight to her, but Mycroft insisted he had to see me. I had to settle for calling her because if I went after he was done yammering, I was afraid you’d wake up while I was gone. I didn’t know what you might do.”

“You? Not know something? Hah!”

“You really should sleep more. Mary and I both agreed that it would be best for you if you stayed here for a week or two.”

“You both need to stop handling me! I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine, John. You’ve been under an inordinate amount of stress and worry. As a doctor, you should know what that will do to your health.”

“We’re talking about earlier!”

“What about earlier?”

“About me…us. Whatever.”

There was a long, long pause before Sherlock said, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me!” he ordered. “The shot didn’t make me lose my memory! We were talking about me being in love with you!”

The detective sighed, seeming to give up on that argument. “What more is there to talk about?”

“There’s a _lot_ more to talk about!” John argued, managing to get up to a sitting position. “You think I’m in love with you?” There was silence. “Since when?!”

“I don’t know. It was gradual at first, I think. I didn’t notice until after a year since we’d started sharing the flat together. It was clear you didn’t realize it and at the time, I thought it was best to not mention it so as to not make things awkward. Later, after seeing your vehement words with Irene Adler, I feared that if I broached the subject, you would panic.”

“Why does everyone keep assuming that I’d panic?!”

“Isn’t that what everyone does when they realize for the first time that they have an attraction to the same sex?”

“It’s not like I’m a homophobe, Sherlock! _Harry_ is a lesbian, for god’s sake!”

“Didn’t you ever take a psychology class? It doesn’t matter if your sister is gay, it’s not about her. It’s about _you_ and the realization that you met someone and fell in love with someone of the same sex. It’s still a shock and if you were that insistent that there was nothing there, I felt it prudent to agree with you.”

John rubbed his face as he felt more and more awake. “How the hell do you know all this? _You_ , a high functioning sociopath?!”

“I study people, John.”

“ _Mycroft_ told you, didn’t he?”

Sherlock glared and shifted. “…Maybe a little.”

This was a massive mess. He didn’t even know what to do anymore. “She said you were in love with me. What about that?”

“Well I suppose if today is about bearing truths that one shouldn’t be left out. She’s right.”

“What about Irene Adler?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. “I will admit to some fascination with her. At the time, I recognized your feelings, but I still did not see my own. Her intellect fascinated me and I was drawn in. She was unlike any other woman I had ever met, but that was all it was. I never…physically…imagined holding her. It was entirely a mental process.”

Sherlock was way too calm for this, John couldn’t help thinking. How many times had he imagined this conversation and run it through his head? “So when _did_ you know?”

“It started during the kidnapping case.” There was no hesitation, no sigh. Sherlock didn’t even pause, as if he had anticipated any question John might ask. “Molly, actually, pointed it out and then I started to think. She told me that I was deliberately being cheerful and confident for you, but I looked sad when I thought you couldn’t see me. When I pointed out that she could see me, she said that she didn’t count. I began to wonder why and I realized it was because you mattered so deeply to me. As we continued to pursue Moriarty, the thoughts never quite left my mind. It was only when Moriarty and I were on the rooftop and he threatened your life that I realized it. Despite having set everything with Mycroft, I knew that you would never be safe if I didn’t continue with the plan. So I had to say those words.”

This time there was a pause and Sherlock steepled his fingers. “What I said at your wedding was the most honest I have ever been and the closest I felt to giving my true feelings. I knew when I returned, just by watching you both, that you loved Mary. She was not the same as the other women you had dated. I dared not say anything at all then and I was determined to support you no matter what. It was Mary that spoke with me, away from you, about my feelings. I believe she noticed our feelings almost from the moment I returned. She is a good woman, John, and wants only the best for you as I do. She thought she was helping, seeing how rough it has been for you the past month, by telling you of the situation. She hoped, I suppose, to bring you some comfort, assure you that she was not threatened by our…close relationship, and she would hold no ill will if you decided to ‘choose me’ as it were should your marriage fail.”

John stared at him, feeling a well of complicated emotions and he settled on irritation. “Both of you are so high-handed! Thinking you know what’s best for me without asking my opinion, determining what I should do and who to be with. Mary thinks that I should come here and suddenly end up in bed with you and you think that would be the worst possible thing to do! Neither of you have ever asked me what I might feel! You both just assume!”

“John—”

“Well, what if I did this!” On the spur of the moment, he gripped Sherlock’s head and leaned in the very short distance apart. Their lips met in an awkward crash, not exactly the finest kiss. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, feeling too emotionally manhandled by the two people he loved most. Was…Mary right? Did he truly have a type of being drawn to sociopathic people like Sherlock and her?

They broke for just a moment and against his lips he heard Sherlock whisper darkly, “John, do not tempt me.” Before John could ask him what he meant, it was Sherlock kissing him this time, leaning in and turning it into something far different than the angry impulsive act it had originally started out to be. He hadn’t realized just how strong Sherlock actually was until he felt those hands gripping his thighs, pulling them apart just slightly so that the detective could drop to his knees on the floor between his legs and press him back into the sofa, never breaking their lips. John gasped in surprise at the motion and that tongue immediately took advantage of it.

Sherlock put just as much passion into this as he did with his cases and John couldn’t help but be overwhelmed. This wasn’t like kissing Mary; this was something solely that belonged to Sherlock and much to his embarrassment, he moaned a little. He didn’t pull away as he thought might have been his first reaction. Instead he found himself welcoming that tongue, holding onto Sherlock’s upper arms.

The kissed ended surprisingly naturally and they panted as their lips broke apart. For a brief moment, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s as they merely breathed. Their attraction to one another had been acknowledged, and acted upon. Whatever it was that they had had before had now been irrevocably changed.

“You said…you didn’t imagine holding her,” John said after a minute.

Blue gray eyes opened and Sherlock pulled back just a little so they didn’t have to go cross-eyed to really look at each other. “That is what I said. Amazing memory, John.” There was a dark look in his partner’s eyes. “I would advise you not to ask the question I know you’re about to. You will not like the answer.”

That only made him more determined. “Does that mean…you’ve imagined holding me?”

 The answer came instantly and boldly. “Yes. Every night since I realized what I felt. You are…the only one I have ever imagined.”

“Period?”

“Period.”

He honestly felt…floored at what he was told. He could see the passion Sherlock had for him, how he was barely restraining himself. The tension in his hands as he gripped his thighs seemed to be the only thing holding him back. “Sherlock, you…”

“This is exactly why what we did isn’t wise, John. If you’re having trouble with Mary, how can any relationship we might have be any better? There is a reason I rarely touch you: because unless you are in danger, I do not have any faith that I can _stop_.”

“But…Sherlock…you…”

“The only reason they didn’t lose me when I was shot was the thought of you. It…is a heavy burden to be the sole focus of my attention, a fact you know well. Don’t…please don’t, John. I can destroy you even if I don’t mean to.”

“…That’s my decision to make, Sherlock,” John told him, feeling the slight trembling of the detective.

“Are you truly aware of the consequences?” he demanded. “Once I have you, I will never let you go. The only person in this world I can even envision myself possibly sharing even a piece of you is to Mary.” Those blue gray eyes softened again. “We both share a bond: we love you dearly, John Watson, and our love has a destructive side to it. I can respect her, her feelings for you are as deep as mine. The question remains, though: are you prepared for the consequences?”

Could he accept the love from two sociopaths? Arguably Mary was far better at functioning in society than Sherlock, but in the end, she was still an assassin. She was still the kind of person that he had not been intentionally looking for. He had wanted to start his life over, find a normal person after Sherlock. Instead, he had chosen someone that had that ‘lifestyle’ his partner had talked about. Perhaps an equally important question was whether or not he could accept what Sherlock wanted. The man he knew wanted, needed, and craved control. Could he be submissive to that?

His answer was to pull Sherlock forward into another deep kiss. There was a soft moan and he wasn’t sure who it was from and suddenly those hands on his thighs had moved to grip his rear, pulling them flush. When their lips broke, Sherlock voraciously attacked his neck, leaving marks and heated kisses. His hand left John’s rear for a brief moment and fumbled in his pocket. Slowly, with a heavy moan, he looked down, but soon enough that hand was back where had been before.

“You…could…maybe wait…five minutes before…going this far,” he muttered and hissing in pleasure as there was a gentle bite on his neck.

“I warned you,” Sherlock replied, voice buzzing against his neck. “I can’t stop, not with you.”

John shifted and suddenly a hand was holding his crotch and he let out a soft shout. He hadn’t had any manner of touch at all since he’d found out and Sherlock was managing to hit every one of his pleasurable spots. Did Mary tell him or did he just know from observation. Limber fingers were tugging at his jeans and suddenly the button was loose, the zipper pulled down.

“You could at least…let me…reciprocate,” John argued a little, unable to dislodge Sherlock enough to reach between them. The best he could manage was opening a few of the buttons on his shirt and jacket.

“Time for that later,” Sherlock told him and this time it was hands diving in his underwear to grip his rear. Their kiss was passionate and he found himself grunting as he was slid forward, their hips meeting. He wasn’t sure if it was him or Sherlock that accidentally kicked the coffee table leg, but it screeched in protest over the hard wood floor.

“Tell me the door is locked,” he panted when he had his mouth back.

“Yes.” It was more a moan than a word and there was the sound of a soft pop. John squirmed a little and gasped loudly when Sherlock’s fingers were suddenly damp and pressing against a specific spot in his rear, asking for entrance.

“Little fast!” he half-protested as those lips were at his neck again and he forgot even his own name.

Yet, despite everything, even with one digit having been slipped in, Sherlock _stopped_. It seemed as if it pained him to do so, but he buried his face in John’s neck and merely breathed. “Sherlock?” he muttered, feeling embarrassed about his current position, but more concerned about the detective’s mental state.

“You see. This is why I said no. I frighten you.”

Was that what Sherlock actually thought? That his surprise and embarrassment was…fear? The only time he had ever felt fear in the past few years was at the thought of Sherlock dying. How could he fear this man of all people? The one that cared so deeply about him? The strength of Sherlock’s passions and love were daunting, that he would never deny, but he wasn’t _scared_ of them.

“Sherlock? Shut up and fuck me.”

There was a long, shocked pause after that and finally that curly head lifted to stare at him as if he’d grown two heads. “What?”

“You heard me,” he panted. “I’m not scared of you. I’m _embarrassed_ and you of all people should know that. How else am I supposed to feel the first time when we’ve just been flatmates and best friends for years? I know…what you want and the way you want it, and I’m giving you the okay.” He lifted his hand from trying to remove Sherlock’s shirt to touch his face, hoping he could reassure him.

Their eyes remained connected even after Sherlock abruptly entered his second finger and John let out a soft cry. It stung, that he wouldn’t deny, but the lotion helped as Sherlock’s fingers explored and loosened him. This time Sherlock wouldn’t move his eyes from his face and that was somehow even more embarrassing, to be watched like that.

“Tell me…one thing,” he muttered before letting out a shout as finally Sherlock found his prostate. “Where…did you get…the lotion?”

“Mycroft put it in my pocket when he thought I wasn’t looking. He’s always been meddlesome.” As he slipped a third finger in, John watched when Sherlock loosened his pants and pulled his rear into his lap, leaving John’s shoulders to brace against the sofa cushions.

“This would go easier…without clothes,” he reminded, making a mental note to kill Mycroft later.

“As if I can wait for that,” was the growled response, yet Sherlock was jerking his jeans and underwear off anyway. Blue gray eyes flickered down to his throbbing arousal and he whispered, “I always wondered what you looked like.”

“Shut. Up.”

Sherlock kissed him softly this time as he leaned up on his knees, knocking his own pants down. The angle was wrong, John couldn’t see him, so he kept his eyes locked with the detective’s. “We’re going to have to move Mary in,” Sherlock muttered as he removed his fingers. “And work out who gets you when.”

“I said…shut up.” A flush was going through his cheeks at the blatant talk. How many moves ahead had Sherlock planned?

“None,” Sherlock whispered and before he could ask if he’d read the question on his face, John found himself pulled down right onto his partner. He let out a shout at the unexpected pleasure and stinging pain. He barely had time to get used to the sensations before Sherlock had lost control of himself and began to thrust ravenously. “John…!”

John gripped Sherlock’s jacket fiercely as the pain began to dissipate and the repeated hitting of his prostate took hold. He was doing his best to keep his pleasure quiet so he didn’t attract their landlady’s attention. “Sherlock! You don’t…have to move…like that. I’m not…going anywhere. You can…take your time!”

“Not now,” Sherlock ordered him and one hand fumbled, reaching between them and squeezing him tightly. “Just…need you…so bad.”

He pulled Sherlock into another deep, overwhelming kiss as he struggled to hold back. This felt perfect, right in a way that he hadn’t realized he’d been yearning for. He loved, without a doubt, Sherlock and there was a very physical side to that love. He held his lover tightly, wrapping his legs around his waist. For so long Sherlock had been dealing with these feelings that he had determined was best to be completely and utterly unrequited.

“Sherlock… Sherlock, I can’t…”

“Let it go, John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear. With the encouragement, he threw his head back with a soft cry and released, getting an equal amount on his shirt and on Sherlock’s. There was a momentary pause, a breathless second where John basked in the highest of orgasm that only Mary had managed to coax out of him before, before he urged Sherlock to find his own release, which he seemed all too eager to do.

There was only a slight grunt to herald the detective’s release and he squirmed as he felt an unexpected wetness hit him deep inside. Sherlock slumped over him, as if the tension had just been dragged from him, face landing in John’s shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t just fall asleep with me like this,” he groaned.

“No, I’m not asleep.”

They panted in silence for a moment before John whispered carefully, “I still love Mary, much as I ever did. I can’t…”

“I would never ask or expect you to leave her.”

“So you’re…all right…with sharing? You get possessive of your _coffee cup_.”

Sherlock looked up at his skepticism. “You, John, are more important than a coffee cup. So long as you live here, with me, than I can share with her.”

“She’d have to live here too.”

“I’m prepared for the eventuality.”

“Even the baby?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit, but he nodded. “Even that.”

John smiled, but faltered a little as he saw Sherlock reaching for his phone. “Who are you calling?”

“Mary. We have to work out who gets you and when, and just where you’ll be sleeping at night.”

“You don’t have to do it right now! Sherlock! At least… At least let me up!”

“I’m perfectly comfortable where I am right now,” he said as he began to dial.

“Comfortable where… Sherlock, you’re still in me!”

“So perceptive.” There was that smile that made him irresistible and the one that he hadn’t see much in recent months since his return and John’s marriage to Mary. “Mary? We have much to discuss.”

Now he was seriously starting to reconsider his type.


End file.
